I’ve always felt like my life was a bit of a jumble. Things just out of order, relatively nonlinear, kind of like a Picasso. Not a Pablo Picasso, mind you, but a Kenny Picasso. When I was a kid, I figured the jumble was because I was really a Jedi, somehow. A portal would open up to another plane and suddenly it would all make sense. Waited for it from age 9.
But then one day I googled myself. Along with results for Brett Shea, Google included results for Brek Shea because Google figured that's probably what I was looking for. Thanks, Google.
Brek Shea is a pro athlete, and as everyone knows, a pro athlete is the closest thing to a Jedi other than Jeff Bridges. So maybe I was supposed to be this Brek to begin with. Maybe, I thought, this is the portal finally opening up.
So the only way to figure that out, I reasoned, was to ask Brek directly. I started to write him a letter.
But first, I had to find out who I was writing to. I looked into Brek, and learned why Google prefers him to me. Turns out, he’s an enigmatic soccer pro from Texas. Played in Europe for a few years. Doesn't form complete sentences, according to the press. In this article, he’s described by his girlfriend while she searches the house for his knife, as a free spirit. He paints in his spare time and drives a murdered-out Jeep. Wrangles snakes and gators. An accomplished fisherman. On his forearm, there’s a big Sanskrit tattoo that reads Free Bird. But in Sanskrit.
Yeah. I didn't make that up. Free Bird. But in Sanskrit.
So I suppose it's entirely possible that Brek is the parallel universe version of me—the alpha to my beta—the Jedi I should have been.
But I think, finally, I can move on from this dream, and live the life I'm on.
Anyhow, here’s that letter. I'm still waiting for a response.
I googled myself to see what came up. A mistake, apparently.